


Intel

by SkinSlave



Series: Tijuana Bible Study [7]
Category: John Wick (Movies), Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: BDSM, Blood Kink, Face Slapping, Gun Kink, Interrogation, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, Nipple Clamps, Podfic Available, Rough Sex, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 23:44:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17887400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave
Summary: Masochism and Weapon Play with John Wick(John Wick AU, circa 2004, hard impact play, gun and knife play, bloodplay, interrogation fetish, scar/wound fetish, rough sex)





	Intel

When John checked in, everyone knew. The news washed over the Continental like a sigh. It rippled through the lounge, where everyone pretended not to care, then promptly informed someone else.

He was sitting in a booth, swirling his glass, when a young woman whispered the name and room number as she passed. He paused for a moment, letting the whirlpool of absinthe settle. He took a sip, then set the glass down and stood. It had been a long time since John was in California and a visit was in order.

The knock on the door was unexpected. John stood to the side and listened. Even breaths... metal clinking... jewelry, not weaponry... then a distinctive throat clearing. John tentatively leaned toward the peephole.

Of course it was Marilyn, striking a pose like the ham that he was. His grey plaid suit vest under striped suspenders, black shirt and turquoise tie that matched his eyeshadow were certainly not discrete. But Marilyn never intended to blend. He simply was whatever he was, and he made it look good.

John hesitated, knowing the effect that it would cause. Sure enough, Marilyn sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes. He folded his sleeves up to the elbows, tapped his foot, spun his large, heavy rings. He knew he was being ignored and it brought out his endearingly bratty side.

John flicked the light switch, bathing the room in shadow, and took a deep breath. In one fluid motion, he opened the door, drug the man inside and kicked it closed. He spun Marilyn around and pressed his face against the wall, one arm pinned behind his back.

"Took you long enough," he snorted, muffled by the wall. "Were you so busy jerking off to me through the peephole that you couldn't open the damn door?"

John leaned into him, compressing his chest, and lifted his arm toward his shoulder. It was menacing, and painful enough to elicit a soft hiss. But Marilyn could feel him nuzzling his stringy black hair, hear him taking in the scent of his shampoo. He grinned.

"I've seen you hold other men like this, John," he murmured sweetly. "Are you gonna interrogate me?"

"Maybe," John growled, his breath hot. "Do you have intel I need?"

"I'm your best contact on the west coast."

John scoffed but it was true. Marilyn went everywhere, heard everything. His flamboyant, rock and roll persona hid a meticulous and calculating man. He had been useful in the past. The teasing hint in his voice, and his wriggling hips, suggested he would be again.

John spun him around, keeping him in an arm lock. He pushed him toward an upholstered chair. Marilyn stumbled and fell into it, then sat obediently. His long fingers, studded with rings, gripped the armrests. His expression, though, was anything but passive. John turned on a lamp.

"You know what I'm here for?" he sighed, pulling the opposite chair close and sitting.

"I heard."

"And?"

Marilyn licked his burgundy lips in an exaggerated way, leaned forward and blew a kiss. John sighed, the slightest hint of a smile toying with his mouth. He was still for a moment, then brought his arm up quickly. The back of his hand snapped Marilyn's face to the side.

A rough grunt at the moment of impact became a velvety chuckle. He gathered himself and cocked his head. His eyes, hazel and corpse blue, were challenging. A lump settled in John's throat.

"I'm not doing this, Marilyn. It's sick," he mumbled. They hit that nerve every time. "Just say what you came to say."

"Who said I intend to tell you anything? You're not going soft, are you?"

Another backhand ruined Marilyn's lipstick. He flashed a smudged, bloody smile and licked his teeth.

"That's my boy," he laughed. "Did you bring toys for me?"

John stood up and crossed the room. He checked the blinds.

"I didn't come to see you."

Marilyn let out a cartoonish gasp. His eyes and mouth went wide with feigned shock. John returned to the chair and crossed his legs. He let his hand rest on his knee, casually holding a knife.

"Hey, now," Marilyn said with a hint of seriousness. "I pay good money to look this tawdry."

He released the armrests to remove his tie and toss it not-so-subtly onto the bed. The vest and shirt were draped on the table. He kicked off his shoes, leaving him in black dress slacks and suspenders hanging at his waist. His hands found their place again as though they hadn't left.

"You're such a damn princess," John chuckled. "So spoiled."

A fresh scar across Marilyn's chest caught his eye and he leaned in for a better look. It was jagged and pink. He traced it with a finger, then the tip of the knife, drawing a lusty sigh from Marilyn's lips.

"You get that working or playing?"

"Come on, John. You know I never work. That one was a beer bottle on stage in Wisconsin. This," he nodded toward a scabbed slice on his side, "was a mark's switchblade in Portland."

John ran the knife along it, scraping at the dried blood. He jabbed a bruise near his hip with the butt of the handle. Marilyn groaned.

"And that?"

"Same mark. Asshole shoved me into a table. And a door. And a chair. I had to dip into my 'trashed hotel room' fund."

John returned to the prominent, tender scar on his chest. He pressed the blade harder this time, reopening it. The shallow cut trickled blood. Marilyn gasped and tossed his head back. A second cut, below the first, had him moaning over his shoulder.

"And that?"

"Some cocksucker who wanted information," he panted, his hair hiding half of his face. "Too bad I'm not as easy as I look."

John drug his fingers through the blood and wiped it on a clean patch of skin. He stood and circled the chair.

"No, you're even easier," he huffed, yanking on that shaggy dark hair. "Someone ought to put you through some real paces... Hook you up to a car battery, take some teeth, a finger or two, brand that pretty little face..."

"Stop," Marilyn quipped. "I'm gonna cum in my pants. You don't actually-"

A hollow click next to his jaw shut his smart mouth for a moment. The barrel of the P30L rested against his throat. He could feel the detail of the slide, the sharp prick of the sight. His breath shuddered.

"I don't have time for this. Up."

Marilyn stood awkwardly. The gun moved to the base of his neck and pushed him toward the bed. As he moved, he unfastened his slacks and stepped out of them. By the time he crawled onto the mattress, he was a bridge of pale skin, covered in ink, fading injuries, drying blood and black boxers.

John looped the discarded tie around Marilyn's throat and pulled him upright. Sitting on his heels, he made a perfunctory attempt to hide his bulge. It was more a reflex than anything. It was doubtful the lanky creature was capable of shame.

John laid the gun on the mattress and, holding the tie tightly, used the knife on his underwear. Marilyn whimpered for effect as his length bobbed into view. John smirked and pushed him back down onto his elbows.

"What did you call me earlier?" he asked sternly, freeing his own arousal from his trousers.

Marilyn didn't reply but pressed his lips to the head in an almost tender kiss. He took his time, curling his tongue around it seductively. John knew, though, that slow and sensual weren't the order of the day.

He pressed the P30L against his temple. Marilyn responded, taking his member down his throat enthusiastically. He whined and gagged a little. But his mouth was truly talented, licking and sucking dreamily. Soon John had to pull him off. He looked offended, his smeared lips curved into a pout, a thread of spit dripping down his chin.

John replaced his cock with the H&K, turning it sideways to better fit. Marilyn closed his eyes and moaned, lapping at the barrel. He lifted one hand to cover John's, feeling along his fingers to the trigger. Touching it was electric. He whimpered and swayed his slim hips.

"Move."

He released the gun with an exaggerated sigh and shifted to the center of the bed. He arched, looking over his shoulder to watch John undress.

If Marilyn was a caricature, he was certainly a centerfold. He laid his suit carefully on the table. His muscular body, a map of tattoos and bullet holes, flexed in the lamplight. He left his boxers on. He always did. Marilyn's heart pounded as he approached.

Instead of kneeling behind, he moved to the head of the bed. He sat and gently pulled the confused man toward him. He laid soft kisses on his full lips, his scruffy beard tickling. Marilyn pulled back.

"What the fuck is that, John?"

"What?" He moved in, wrapped his arm around Marilyn and kissed his ear. "I thought you wanted to make love."

" _Make love?_ Are you fucking serious right now?"

He sat up on his knees. His mismatched eyes narrowed as though trying to catch John's angle. It was a game, a power move, and it worked. While he was busy wrinkling his nose at the lovey-dovey talk, John took hold of his shoulder and the tie and flipped him onto his back.

"That's my boy," Marilyn gasped, grinning.

"Quiet."

John reached over him. One hand held the tie taut while the other yanked the drawer out of the nightstand. He set it on the bed and slicked the both of them with lube. Marilyn was more than ready and easily swallowed two, then three fingers to the knuckle. He whined and rolled his hips, fingernails leaving long red scratches down the other man's chest.

When John sank in, his composure cracked. His normally stoic expression bent into one of bliss and need. He held still for a moment and reached for the drawer.

Marilyn's eyes had rolled back with the delightful stretch and stinging pain. They snapped back open when he felt a heavy clamp close on one nipple. He squealed and lifted his hands. John pushed them away and seated the other clamp. The pressure was intense and Marilyn writhed.

The sight of him licking those ruined lips was enough to inspire John to action. He began to thrust, slowly at first. He eased into it, knowing that his girth was difficult to take. But he couldn't resist digging his fingertips into the fresh cuts on that pale chest.

"Come on," Marilyn goaded, his body shifting with each thrust. "I thought you wanted intel. Beat it out of me."

John growled and sped up. Soon he was leaning on his elbows, pounding out a rough rhythm. Marilyn's blood smeared between them. The clamps pulled and he whined. He bucked his hips to meet every thrust, his cock hard against John's stomach.

With so much foreplay, the main course wouldn't last long. John could feel his peak building with every plunge into Marilyn's tight warmth. He knew a spectacular finish was coming. He also knew that, if Marilyn was going to cum, he'd need a little something extra.

Raising onto his knees, John hoisted Marilyn's bony hips in the air. He drove deeply several times, making the man beneath him moan and gasp. He seemed to have settled into the new rhythm, gripping his cock tightly and crying out with every rough fuck. John read the moment and slapped him full-force.

"Fuck," he gasped, red-faced. "Again."

Another smack, hard enough to leave a sallow handprint, pushed him over the edge. He tensed and bucked, slinging cum over his stomach and chest. His clenching heat milked John's cock, filling him. The room filled with the grunts and sighs of climax, then quieted.

John flopped onto the mattress to catch his breath. They were both trembling, dark hair plastered to their foreheads. Marilyn removed the clamps from his chest and clicked them.

"Didn't come to see me, huh?" he chuckled, his voice husky from use. "I knew you'd bring toys."

"Are you gonna tell me what you know?"

Marilyn raised up on his elbows and glared at him sidelong. John was president of changing the subject. It gave him half a mind to clam up. But he was also vice president of awkward silences, and Marilyn didn't have the patience to wait him out.

"Your mark won't be keeping his dinner reservations tonight. He'll be home alone. One guard at each entrance. I recommend the south side."

"You're sure?"

"The wife's in Prague getting new tits," Marilyn said smugly. "And the girlfriend cancelled about an hour ago because she's going to the Chateau instead... with me."

John laughed, a rare, rumbling sound. He stretched his arms overhead, showcasing the scars and bruises that mottled his ribs.

"And what do you want in exchange for this generous setup?"

Marilyn flopped onto his stomach, his eyes glittering. He pursed his lips like a pinup and traced John's bicep. He looked like the cat that got the cream.

"Next time," he purred, "bring a car battery."


End file.
